Ruby's Slippers

by Tricia Rayburn

  Scrabble. I remember the name from the small toy store in Curly Creek. I also remember wondering how fun a game about letters and words could be. Twister it’s not.

  “Nope. I just happened to get in a great shipment today and thought I’d share some sunshine with my neighbors.” He brings his other hand out from behind his back and holds up two enormous bouquets of flowers.

  “Lilies!” Nana Dottie exclaims, taking the white bouquet and lowering her nose to the blossoms. “My favorite.”

  I watch Oscar step toward Momma, who’s still on the couch. She looks like she plans to stay angry for a while, but her face relaxes slightly as he nears, and I catch a quick glimmer of a smile.

  “I wasn’t sure which was your favorite, Francine,” Oscar says, “but these reminded me of you.”

  I understand instantly why they would. Momma’s bouquet is filled with red, pink, hot pink, orange, yellow, and purple daisies. While my sunflower’s pretty and Nana Dottie’s lilies are elegant, Momma’s daisies light up the room.

  “Thank you.” Momma takes the bouquet and smiles. “They’re gorgeous. I didn’t know daisies came in so many colors.”

  “Oscar owns his very own flower shop,” Nana Dottie says. “He creates exquisite arrangements for parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs—you name it.”

  “Wow,” I say, trying to imagine what it would be like to work with flowers all day. “That sounds like fun.”

  “It is,” Oscar says. “In fact—”

  “That reminds me.” Nana Dottie starts across the living room. “I’m hosting a brunch for the girls from the club and would love to discuss some floral options. I’m thinking bright yet subtle, fresh yet classic. Maybe roses? Or tulips? Or . . .”

  Nana Dottie’s voice fades as she heads down the hall. Apparently, Oscar is supposed to follow her.

  “Would you like me to put that in water?” he asks me.

  “Please,” I say gratefully. My arms ache from holding the sunflower tree. It takes great energy to lift it and pass it to him. “Thank you.”

  “Francine?” he says.

  Momma lifts her face from the daisies. “I think I’d like to hold on to them a little while longer. But thank you so much. That was very kind of you.”

  It’s clear that Momma loves her bouquet. It’s also clear by the way Oscar’s smile takes up his entire face that this makes him happy.

  “He’s so nice,” I say once he leaves the room.

  “He is.” The tip of Momma’s nose travels from one blossom to the next.

  “I wonder how he got to be friends with Nana Dottie. They seem pretty different.”

  “They do.”

  I wait several seconds, but Momma doesn’t look up. I’d kind of like to talk about what happened before Oscar rang the doorbell, but she seems lost in thought and I don’t want to interrupt. I know she’ll talk when she’s ready, so after a solid two minutes, I return to the desk—and to my laptop.

  I’ve been trying to set up the Internet so I can check my school e-mail account, but I’ve never set up the Internet before and don’t know what I’m doing. I always thought you just popped a computer out of the box, turned it on, and were ready to go. Not so. I managed to plug it in and turn it on, but each time I click on the blue e that I know from doing homework at the Curly Creek library is the Internet icon, the screen tells me to check my network connection.

  I try again for another ten minutes. I’m so focused on reading and following the instructions that came with the computer, I don’t hear myself groan out loud in frustration.

  “Want me to try?”

  “Yes.” I scoot over so Momma can share my chair, and I rattle off all the things I’ve tried to get it to work.

  Momma listens and nods. She glances at the directions and puts them down. She stares at the screen like she’s telepathically telling it what to do. And then she holds down the shift key and hits enter.

  Not surprisingly, the screen doesn’t change.

  “Oh well.” She shrugs and stands up. “The computer might be a dud. Want to go swimming now?”

  “Sure,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll ask Nana Dottie for help later.”

  I know Nana Dottie has a computer with Internet access because she’s always talking about things she learned online, like country club events, tofu recipes, and weather forecasts. But it doesn’t occur to me that asking her for help will somehow bother Momma until the back door quietly slides closed.

  I watch through the windows as she takes a tin watering can and fills it with water from the garden hose. She gently places her daisies inside the watering can, carries the makeshift vase to a lounge chair, and sits down. After staring at the pool for several seconds, she leans back and closes her eyes.

  Momma looks so pretty sitting by the water with flowers in her lap, I reach for my backpack and take out my camera.

  But when I walk closer for a better view, I realize she also looks a little sad. So I change my mind and put the camera away before joining her outside.

  9.

  If I had to rate the next morning on a scale of one to ten, I’d give it a seven and a half. Momma was in a good mood during the drive to school, Mr. Fox and I successfully repeated yesterday’s best time at the metal detectors, and Ava Grand was too busy planning her Citrus Star performance with her friends to bother me in homeroom. I also paid attention to attendance and learned the name of the nice boy who knows Vivian Vance.

  Sam. Which just happens to be one of my all-time favorite boy names ever.

  So it was a decent morning. It might’ve even been a ten if not for the small chocolate stain that I found on my jeans and made bigger by trying to clean it with water and a paper towel, for which I deducted half a point. And the fact that it took place at Sweet Citrus Junior High, which, regardless of everything else, warranted a two-point deduction. Still, all in all, not bad . . . and definitely good enough to keep me from immediately panicking when I see a group of kids gathered around a flat-screen TV in the hallway between fourth and fifth periods.

  “What’s going on?” I ask a girl at the back of the crowd.

  “The Citrus Star lineup is about to be announced.” Then, as if just realizing what I said, she looks at me curiously and adds, “Didn’t you check your e-mail?”

  No, I did not check my e-mail. That would require Internet access, which would require asking Nana Dottie for help, which, as of nine o’clock last night, I wasn’t about to do since Momma was still pouting.

  “We better be last,” another girl declares near the front of the crowd. “If we’re not, I’m totally transferring.”

  The TV screen explodes into gold sparkles. As the glittery display shifts and spirals across the screen, I scan the crowd. Everyone’s staring straight ahead so I can’t see faces, but when I spot long, blond hair that looks like it just left a salon hanging over a lavender sundress, I know who’s threatening to leave school.

  Ava Grand.

  “We’ll be last.” Friend #1 hooks one arm through Ava’s arm.

  “We have to be.” Friend #2 hooks one arm through Ava’s other arm.

  “If we’re not, we’re all transferring.” Friend #3 crosses her arms over her chest, since Ava has no arms left.

  The gold glitter thins and trickles to the edges of the screen. A video montage of clips from last year’s show starts in the center of the screen. Pockets of cheers, applause, and laughter sound throughout the crowd as kids recognize themselves. I watch closely and take mental notes to review later, when I’m miserably trying to figure out what my performance will be. Many kids sing songs I’ve never heard. Some dance. A few play musical instruments. One girl backflips in place, going faster and faster until she’s a blur of black spandex onstage.

  I start to relax. The talents are interesting, and most of the kids are really good, but overall, Citrus Star doesn’t seem that different from the talent shows back home. After a minute or two, I step back from the crowd. I pull my camera from my backpack. I take a pi
cture of the TV screen, and then quickly hide the camera behind my back. When everyone’s too busy admiring themselves to pay attention to me, I take another shot, and another. I’m wondering if I’ll be able to put in a new roll of film without anyone noticing when the pockets of cheers and applause swell, then explode.

  I cringe at the noise. I haven’t heard cheering like this since last November, when Mr. Lou and his wife dressed up as Santa and Mrs. Claus and rode a tractor at the end of the Curly Creek Thanksgiving Day Parade. Kids and adults alike had screamed so loud that the creek, which freezes every winter, cracked.

  When I check the TV again, it looks like someone changed the channel. Smoke swirls, lights flash, and a low, deep voice grumbles something about the party getting started. After several seconds, four glittery figures appear, and the crowd—both onscreen and here in the hallway—goes nuts.

  Now, Momma and I watch a lot of movies, but we don’t care much for regular TV. That might be because we only got one channel in Curly Creek, which was so fuzzy it always looked like local reporters were broadcasting in a blizzard, even in the middle of summer. In any case, Gabby got two hundred crystal-clear channels at her house. (Her dad is a sportsaholic. They got satellite TV so he could watch games played across the country.) And after school one rainy day, we flipped through channels and stopped on one called MTV. We watched a few music videos to see what they were like, and, quickly deciding that if you saw one you saw them all, we turned off the TV and played Monopoly instead.

  I hate to admit it, I hate to even think it . . . but if any of those videos had been like the performance Ava and her friends gave last year, I don’t think we would’ve been so quick to stop watching.

  Because they were good. They were really good.

  The noise dies down as the video montage ends. The gold glitter swirls across the screen like it’s dancing to the funky jazz music playing in the background. Eventually, the glitter forms words: MISS ANITA PRESENTS . . . THE ANNUAL CITRUS STAR LINEUP.

  The hallway’s practically silent now, and I wonder what the big deal is. If everyone gets a turn, why does it matter who goes first, last, or sometime in between? I’m still clueless as names start drifting across the screen, but I quickly learn from the light squealing that the opening, pre-intermission, post-intermission, and final slots are the ones to get. I also learn that, unfortunately, Ava Grand and company won’t be leaving Sweet Citrus Junior High anytime soon, as they’ll be closing the show.

  The crowd slowly disperses. I make sure my camera’s secure in my backpack and then pull out a notebook and a pencil. I’ve been updating my letter to Gabby every chance I get so she doesn’t miss one detail of my new life and will have to write fast to get this update down before the bell rings.

  “Uh-oh, Neptune.”

  I press into the page. The tip of my pencil breaks.

  “Here less than a week and already in trouble.”

  I don’t want to look up, but I have no choice. As much as I’d like to pretend Ava Grand doesn’t exist, ignoring her isn’t worth getting into trouble with anyone else. Plus, I have no idea what I could’ve done wrong or who I could’ve upset, and she’s clearly the type of person who knows everything about everyone.

  “Oh?” I give her the biggest smile I can manage. “Great performance, by the way. Totally professional.”

  This seems to throw her for a quarter of a second, but then she smirks, flips her hair over one tan shoulder, and nods to the TV screen. My heart lunges in my chest as I follow her nod, and it feels like it might break through when I see what she’s referring to.

  The screen is no longer gold and sparkly. It’s white and blank . . . except for four words pulsating in bold black font.

  SEE ME, RUBY LEE!

  My face grows hot. My knees shake. I suddenly know exactly how Dorothy feels when she looks to the sky and sees the Wicked Witch of the West flying on her broom and spelling out “Surrender Dorothy” in big, black letters.

  “Better hurry,” Ava says, and I think I see her nose turn green. “Miss Anita doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  The bell rings. Ava and her friends scurry down the hallway, leaving a trail of giggles behind them. I want to move—I have to move—but my red Converse are stuck to the linoleum. My eyes are stuck on the screen. I think that the letters will fade or that the TV will simply turn off, but neither happens. I’m working up the courage to look for a power switch when the door behind me swings open and a boy with light brown hair and dark-rimmed glasses darts out.

  “Sam?” I turn around, my feet temporarily thawed. “Where are you—?”

  I stop. He’s already rounding the corner at the end of the hall, head down, shoulders slumped.

  “Hello, Ruby,” a cool female voice says. “Come in.”

  “I can’t,” I say, barely hearing the words over my pulse drumming in my ears. “I mean, I’d love to stay and chat, of course, but I’m already late for math. Maybe I can stop by after? Or during lunch? Whatever works for you.”

  A hand touches my shoulder. I look directly into Miss Anita’s eyes. Or, more accurately, into her ivory sunglasses, which really make me look into my eyes instead of hers, thanks to their mirrored lenses.

  “I’ll write you a pass.”

  “Oh.” I try to smile. “Great. Thanks.”

  I follow her into her office, careful to leave a few feet between us to avoid stepping on the long, light blue skirt that billows behind her. I wonder what she said to Sam that made him run like she was chasing him and if I’m minutes away from doing the same thing. She closes the door gently behind us, and I casually look around for an alternate escape.

  “This is a lovely room,” I say, partially because a little kindness couldn’t hurt in this situation, and also because it’s true. “It doesn’t feel at all like an office.”

  “Offices are for principals,” Miss Anita says. “I’m a performance director and a dance instructor.” She sinks into a soft white chair and crosses her legs. Her shifting skirt sounds like leaves rustling in a breeze.

  I’m so impressed by the white furniture, thick white carpet, and multiple vases of purple flowers I almost forget to be nervous. “Whoa. Is that you?”

  She doesn’t answer, but that doesn’t stop me from getting a closer look at the picture hanging on the wall behind her ornate white desk. It’s a poster-sized photo of a beautiful ballerina. She wears a sparkly white leotard, a long tulle skirt, and purple satin ballet shoes laced up to the middle of her calves. Her dark hair is twisted into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. She’s onstage, and the background is a soft pink blur so that the focus is on her. Her body is turned slightly from the camera, and her head is lowered as if she’s sad or deep in thought. Despite the angle of her head, her eyes stare straight ahead. They’re not quite blue and not quite purple. They remind me of irises, which are these purplish-blue flowers that popped up around our house each spring. More striking than the color, though, is what they seem to be saying: Look away. I dare you.

  “You didn’t register for Citrus Star.”

  I tear my eyes away from the ballerina’s. As I turn toward Miss Anita, I see other eyes. Dozens of them. They’re following me, and I realize they’re my eyes. Looking down at me from more mirrors than in the entire crazy Hall of Mirrors in the Curly Creek Carnival fun house. There are big mirrors and small mirrors. Round, oval, and square mirrors. Mirrors with metal frames, mirrors with wooden frames. They surround the ballerina picture like a protective glass shield.

  “Did I get an e-mail about that?” I finally ask, facing Miss Anita.

  “Several.”

  “I’m sort of having technical difficulties at home. I can’t get online.”

  “You’ll need your e-mail if you’re going to get through this year.”

  I think I’ll need a lot more than that—namely luck—but somehow doubt Miss Anita is really that concerned about whether I make it through the year.

  “You’re new, yes?” She leans
back.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You realize all students must participate in Citrus Star.”

  “I’ve heard that, yes, ma’am.”

  “Have you also heard that you’ll be graded on your performance? And that this grade will live on your permanent transcript from now until the end of time? Potentially paving the way for your success both here and in high school, as well as guiding the trajectory of your entire future?”

  A fresh wave of warmth spreads across my cheeks. “No, ma’am.”

  She doesn’t move as she studies me through her sunglasses. “What do you do?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  She sighs, like I’m trying her patience. “What do you do? What’s your talent?”

  This sounds like a simple question that has a simple answer. Except, for the life of me, I can’t think of one. What do I do? Besides watch movies? And hang out with Momma? And count the many reasons why I wish we’d never moved here?

  “Do you sing?” Miss Anita prompts. “Act? Dance tap, jazz, or ballet?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like a failure in my entire life. “Not really. I mean, I like to dance for fun . . . but I haven’t taken lessons or anything.”

  Her head lifts then lowers as she sizes me up.

  “I take pictures,” I say quickly, even though I haven’t even developed a single roll of film yet. “I carry my camera with me everywhere.”

  Her lips press together. I’m about to open my backpack to show her when she stands up—slowly, elegantly, like a blossoming flower. She walks across the room, and I notice she’s barefoot. She sinks into the high-backed chair behind her desk, pulls her legs up beneath her, and types something into her computer. She’s still wearing her sunglasses, and I wonder how she can see the screen with them on.

  “Unfortunately, Ruby, you’re the very last student to register. Everyone else has already paired up or formed groups.”

  “I’m sorry.” I step toward the desk, feeling the iris eyes watch me. “I didn’t know. It won’t happen again.”